Fuck Perth literary wankers.

This is a transcript from when I tried to submit work to a, lets say, nameless webzine based in Perth. I need a manager, because I can't deal WITH FUCKING NOBODIES WHO HAVEN'T EVEN LIVED THEIR WORK.

I digress, and now begin the transcript.
P.S The names have been changed to protect, well, fuck them. They know who they are. THEY EVEN STARTED WRITING LIKE ME AFTER I SHOWED THEM MY WORK.

Email One
Civilization isn't just a computer game.
The bright lights of big cities blinding anything but your soul. Petula Clark would have squinted at you, then asked for some spare change. The parts we play, the drone of the drones of our hummingbird idealism, all contribute to our city. The putrid mess of glassings, gang violence, bikie controlled tattoo parlours and single fathers.
Do you ever think about why we group together?
The people you see, who know people you've seen, who've been places you will never see.
The essence of the guilty only resonates in the people who judge.

Everyone is a celebrity these days. Look at your Facebook civilization. Built from the ground up.
There will be a generation of children who could be taught that the Internet has been around forever.
But to be civilized you have to abide by rules, regulations, recent events and retaliate when pushed into the corner.
Pushing packets on the corner?
It's a sight I've seen too many times, the crumbs of society left to rot, every Friday the fried heads get fried by tasers.
Civilization's foundation is on shaky ground. We have built it on handshakes and money. Old money, new money, money printed on paper, papyrus scrolls with value scrawled on it by a machine.
One day, Anarchy will come.
Come on, for fucks sake.
Class War.
Sustained, move to strike.
The whole idea of civilization is built on class. Class exists. It might not be the caste system we observe overseas, but it still raises its Skull and Bones flag every time a favour is needed.
Unions prove this.
Classroom antics in primary school. Remember the kid you picked on? The one you thought would be serving your selfish spawn McZingers?
Think about his family.
His dad might know someone, who knew someone else, who was the Bursar at an elite school.
All of a sudden, that kid is smiling the loudest.
Civilizations are built to self destruct. If there was no need to make money from building things your patriotism blew up in the first place, there would be no need to see the space left in your nepotism. There are many ways you could describe the sorry state of affairs we have placed ourselves in, but just look back at the Mesopotamians, the Aztecs, the Mayans.
Where are their belltowers and ferris wheels?
Are they our pyramids, our libraries of Alexandria, our Towers of Babylon?
Our contribution to the future master species of the world will be pillars of salted iPods.
We have come this far only to want to revert back to the idea of minimalism, which apparently was invented by Steve Jobs.
What ever happened to the architecture that suited the land it was built on.
I can't see the forest for the trees, due to the array of cranes scarring the skyline so subtlety. Our glass houses, our glass offices, our glass pipes, all for the hedonism of now.
What happens when Will Smith ends up hunting deer through the Northbridge tunnel?
I'll be riding shotgun with my trusty rusty, looking hazy through the dusty remnants of our society.
The pounding of the new world order on our door, the flags we wave all have the same colours.
People exclaiming how these colours never run, but I painted your flag with mascara.
I can't normalise my ideas for you and I won't try to.
The end has always been nigh, the sandwich boarders boarding at my house who are always welcome, the people who dedicated the time they have left on this earth to letting us know we have none left.
I have been one of those soothsayers with a toothache, letting go of it all just to sample the post it notes I've written on the street, for all you to see.
By visually invading your space, the kids and adults who choose to lose the plot and perpetrate larceny are freer than you ever will be. The downfall of civilization and society means nothing to me.
When it comes down to brass tacks,
as long as I can hand in my Centrelink form with both limbs intact,
I'll know that I haven't cracked.
Yet.

Cry, you've seen my blog. You know I can write.

Jimmy Hats.

Reply One

Some good writing in there.

It doesn't hold together well enough for the blog.

Keep writing.

Editor

perthliterarywankers.com

Email Two

Can you explain how it doesn't hold together for the blog?

Jimmy Hats.

Reply Two
Fragments. Non-sequiturs. No theme or setting. No narrative hook.

Plus quite a few of your statements are indefensible. As in, "Civilization isn't just a computer game". This implies that it is generally believed that civilization is a computer game, which is not actually the case. That is just one of many examples.
Editor.

(This fuckwit doesn't even remember that Civilization was a Real Time Strategy PC Game released around 1995.)



Email Three
Whom do I have the utmost pleasure of communicating with?
(To which I didn't recieve a reply to)

Email Four

So you won't own up to an anonomous parody of opinion but you'll hide behind a psudeonym of editor?

Is this so I can't nitpick your work and make your sorry excuse for a collective realize your degrees don't mean shit In the real world, and not everyone likes to read contrived masturbatory rants about what they did that nearly got them arrested.

There's my submission, straight to brass tacks, and it seems like it is you lot that end up on your backs.

Take it like a bitch cos that's all the submitting your gonna get.

Can't even own up who you are.

Dr. Jimmy Hats, Esquire.

Bunch of pretentious western suburbs spoonfed cunts. You plagarize my shit anyway and try to nitpick my work?

Own up who you are and we'll see who can nitpick, you peon.


So I get angry.
It's not my fault.
WHAT IS MY FAULT IS THAT I THOUGHT MAYBE LITERARY MINDED PEOPLE MIGHT SHOW SUPPORT FOR ONE ANOTHER, INSTEAD, THEY JUST RIPPED OFF MY STYLE OF WRITING. IT'S EVIDENT WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN AFTER MY SUBMISSION THEY END UP BEATNIKKING, OR, BEATOFFING EVERY SINGLE PARAGRAPH.
TRUE CULTURE FUCKING VULTURES.

Vented, now I can sleep better.
YOUR WHOLE AURA IS PLEXIGLASS AND NOONE BOUGHT YOUR SECOND BOOK SO YOU MOVED BACK TO YOUR MOTHERS HOUSE YOU DIMWITTED EXCUSE FOR A BUKOWSKI BITER.

Now, that's a vent.